


The Undertow of Sand

by Carradee



Series: Feathers on the Sand [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Force-Sensitive Padmé Amidala, Mental Health Issues, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, spy!Jedi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2019-11-07 06:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17955737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carradee/pseuds/Carradee
Summary: Naboo has been won, and the clone army is in development, but things aren't the same as Before. Padmé has changed some of her choices.Between the Jedi in the Lake Country and others reacting to the Jedi they've met, things have already skewed beyond what Padmé can control. Will this strengthen or weaken her goals?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, wut? What's this? Book 5?
> 
> Yes, yes it is.
> 
> And I can already tell it's not going to quite be what I expected it to be, but I _think_ we should start getting a bit more timeline progression soon. Yay! :D
> 
> * * *
> 
> All Eirtaé had were questions, followed the stranger so she could get some answers.

After the second security officer sought to discreetly waylay her while they sought her parents, Eirtaé Frizmar started keeping a copy of her official documents in easy reach. It didn’t help nearly as much as it should’ve. Naboo was possibly the only planet that defined adulthood by merit rather than age, and people kept assuming her documentation was forged.

Maybe she should’ve sought a more direct courier to Kiffex, but taking public transport to Thyferra would make her trip easier to “spin” to her advantage. All she had to do was negotiate the purchase of extra bacta for treating the results of the invasion, and she could call it personal or professional, helping Queen Amidala or promoting her own career.

Assuming she _could_ negotiate the purchase of extra bacta. The local newscasts were reeling over some leaked data alleging a production shortage.

Convenient, considering the recent invasion of Naboo. Core worlds didn’t experience the wars that would increase demand for bacta, and Naboo was one of the Mid Rim worlds that could afford top quality.

Another security officer’s focus sharpened on her. She sighed and reached for her documentation.

“Frizmar,” said a woman’s voice, and the security officer’s attention relaxed.

Eirtaé glanced towards the speaker, a cloaked Human who _felt_ older than her posture suggested. She shifted her weight so she could more easily grab her holdout blaster, if warranted. “Yes?”

The woman brushed over Eirtaé with the Force, and she strode off in a wordless command to follow.

But who did this woman work for? Only Vos and Tholme knew where she was, theoretically, but maybe the chancellor had put a flag on her ID. House heirs didn’t use public transport, so that could’ve caught his attention…but she’d fled Naboo after learning her legal father couldn’t be her biological one. (All the safer for the queen’s other handmaidens, so none would be thought her friends.) Would the chancellor truly move so quickly?

All she had were questions.

Eirtaé carefully adjusted the bag on her shoulder so she could keep her hands tucked in her sleeves and thereby by her blaster, and followed the stranger so she could get some answers.

 

The spaceport was moderately busy, healthy without being so crowded that she couldn’t see beyond a few feet ahead of her, and the air smelled more of the fuel and oil of the ships than the sweat and perfumes of the people. Eirtaé didn’t need to use the Force at all, to keep the woman’s hood in view.

Not that line of sight was constant, and not that the woman was the only one with a cloak and hood, but nobody else blended that size, posture, and stride.

When the path entered a small worn building, nooked away from the crowd or the security sweeps, Eirtaé glanced around and entered with her blaster at ready.

And shot the foot that came at her face.

Thewoman leapt back without a sound beyond the sizzle of her boot, and kepther body angled for defense as she studied Eirtaé comparably to how Tholme had watched Padmé. “You followed me. Why?”

 _Because you told me to_ would be the foolish answer. That was obviously part of it.

“You’re like Tholme,” she answered, instead.

“Huh.” The woman removed her cloak, tossed it over the old chair that looked least unsteady. Her hair was short and white, though she moved with the ease of someone south of middle age. “You’re younger than I expected.”

Was that honest commentary, or just fishing for her reaction to potential insults? “I leave for Kiffex in a few hours.”

“Do you?”

The challenge reminded Eirtaé of her father—as in, the man that raised her, not the man who she had recently realized was probably her biological parent. The tact, the plausible deniability—those were more like the latter man, except this woman wasn’t trying to trigger Eirtaé’s sympathy.

“Do you have evidence supporting your claim that my itinerary has been changed?” Eirtaé asked, instead of repeating herself.

The woman smiled.

* * *

There was an odd disquiet in the Force, that morning.

Obi-Wan tried to relax into the meditation to find the source, but it remained elusive. Maybe it was just _his_ lingering uneasiness from last night, when a woman he loved had broken a promise, a high councilor he respected had revealed she was _broken_ , and a ghost he hadn’t expected had butted into a conversation with his padawan and helped them through a communication failure.

No wonder he was struggling to meditate.

The hum of an approaching speeder caught his ear, growing louder quickly enough that it was headed straight for the villa.

He headed down to the main area to greet the guest and found Master Billaba— _Depa_ —already seated at the table beside Anakin, munching a savory-smelling pastry and showing him something on a flimsiplast. In _Huttese_.

He blinked. “I didn’t know you knew that language.”

And when did she even arrive? (And, if she was already here, who was in that approaching speeder?)

“ _La_ , _h’bolkubok_ ,” she answered absently, sounding as much like her usual high councilor self as she looked. She glanced over his aura, giving him clear view of the small bandage above one eye.

She straightened abruptly, suddenly alert in a way that reminded him of Mandalore and sent a shiver climbing up his back. “Apologies,” Depa said, not nearly sedately enough to soothe him. “I…enjoy the language.”

Anakin snorted.

Humor tugged the edges of her eyes and lips, and she allowed, “After a fashion.”

The speeder docked and shut off.

Depa didn’t even glance that way before plucking another pastry from the platter in the middle of the table and throwing it towards the balcony.

Quinlan paused midstride as he caught it, then swaggered into a chair. “Morning. Well, morning side of noon-ish.”

Obi-Wan blinked and glanced out the balcony, realizing it was far later than he’d thought. Just how long had he been failing to meditate? He’d have to tell Anakin to interrupt him, when that happened.

Depa frowned at Quin, who was focused on his food. “I slept more than you.”

“Uh-huh.”

She scowled.

“So how’s Padmé?” Anakin piped up. “She was with Master, uh… Siri?”

Quinlan paused mid-bite.

Depa snorted. “Of course _she_ called you.”

Anxiety pulsed in Anakin.

Quinlan set his pastry down on a serving plate, pushed back from the table without getting up.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said politely, “but I seem to be missing part of this conversation. Would someone please fill me in?”

Depa rolled her eyes, her fingers running over something in an interior pocket. “A bounty hunter had to stage a genuine attack on Siri and Amidala.”

 _Stage…genuine…?_ “So you intercepted?” he guessed, though that wasn’t her reputation.

Her eyes lit up with the hopefulness that had been so disturbing the night before, before dulling into its usual calm.

And that way of thinking about it made Obi-Wan all the more uneasy. Depa was reminding him of _Satine_ , who’d been trained to kill and had to actively choose not to.

Quinlan still hadn’t returned to eating, as if waiting for something. Anakin was hunched into his seat, as if trying to disappear.

Without losing the calm, Depa pulled her hand from her pocket, revealing that she’d been holding the _bes’bev_ (Mandaloran flute) he’d seen in his holocall to her the night before. She set it beside her plate and stroked it thoughtfully while she finished her pastry.

Then lunged over the table at Quin.

Who flipped his chair to smack her in the face, interrupting her jump.

“ _What_?!” Obi-Wan blurted, as Depa rolled on the floor in laughter.

“Just a game,” Quinlan said lightly, though the way he was eyeing her and held himself at ready belied that.

Anakin coughed. He’d backed up against the wall, holding the flimsy, and the way he watched Depa was both anxious and _understanding_. He swallowed hard and said, “You shouldn’t do that.”

Both the other Jedi froze.

“You shouldn’t take it out on him,” Anakin insisted.

Quin was between Depa and Anakin before Obi-Wan could blink. It was defensive, as if he actually expected her to possibly attack the boy she was staring at.

Depa felt sharp in the Force, like a predator out for prey.

Anakin shivered but lifted his chin, biting his lip, and met her gaze.

“Okay,” Quinlan said quietly. “What are you looking at, Depa?”

Her attention snapped to him with a glare. “I know what he is!”

He just watched her.

“…Ally,” she said reluctantly, her glare morphing into a scowl. “ _E chu taa_!” She shoved herself away and stalked off.

Quinlan grabbed his pastry from the table, tossed another on a plate in front of Obi-Wan. “And…?” he called after her.

“I _know_ , Quin!” she yelled back, not stopping.

He sighed and straightened the table and messed-up chair, relaxing and settling into his meal with relish as if Depa hadn’t just acted _insane_.

“Pit-sick,” Anakin said, sounding as if he recognized the situation.

Quinlan glanced at him. “Not market-sick?”

Anakin shook his head. “Market-sick is when you’ve been sold so much that you stop being able to do anything of value, so your masters _keep_ selling you. Pit-sick is when you’re so used to the pits that you can’t see anything else.”

His padawan then tapped the table in front of Obi-Wan, reminding him of his own meal. “Are you going to eat that?”

“If you want more food than what’s provided, just ask,” Quinlan said, returning to his meal. “Paddy won’t mind.”

“Oh.”

“You know Paddy?” Obi-Wan asked aloud, even while he cringed at the alert of something _else_ he hadn’t thought about his padawan needing to know.

Quinlan raised an eyebrow at him, a silent, ’You _know_ I can’t admit things directly,’ so yes, he did. And the circumstances were _classified_. Maybe Paddy was groundskeeper here between jobs for Judicial?

Obi-Wan mentally caught himself before his hypotheses got too ridiculous. Quin had probably just researched the villa on his way here.

And those terms Anakin had used for Depa, with Quin accepting them, suggested— “Depa was a _slave_?”

“Yeah,” Anakin answered. “I figured it out last night, when she got here.” He cringed and added to Quinlan, “I also figured out…uh…the other thing.”

Quin didn’t so much as pause in his chewing. “Uh-huh.”

Anakin watched him carefully for a moment, then huffed in relief.

“I don’t understand,” Obi-Wan said, feeling lost. “What _happened_?”

Quinlan ignored him, which meant he _couldn’t_ answer.

“Am _I_ the age…?” Anakin struggled for words, then mumbled, “ _She-doesn’t-know-if-the-kid-survived_.”

The _kid_?

Quin froze, temper rising as he stared at Anakin. “What.”

“She said you’d be mad about that.”

“And you’re testing how we react when angry or defied,” Quinlan said, voice clipped as he shoved fury into the Force, “because she would’ve forbidden you to talk about it.”

There was an obvious conclusion Obi-Wan could draw from the talk about the two Jedi and a _child_ , but it didn’t feel right. “You and Depa…?”

“What?” Genuine horror spilled from Quinlan. “No! _Frip_ no. I don’t— Just, no.” He grabbed his comm and dialed, then switched to Kiffa to tell off the person who answered.

From the recipient’s handful of attempts to get a word in edgewise, Obi-Wan figured out it was Tholme before Quinlan wound down and the man on the other end said, _“He’s not a Jedi.”_

“He’s alive, then?” Anakin piped up.

The pause that followed was an implicit scold, judging from Quin’s scowl. _“You told Skywalker?”_

“ _Depa_ told Skywalker.” Quinlan ate another bite, and silence persisted through that. “He aged out this year, then?”

The comm stayed quiet, then had the sound of a hang-up.

Quin’s expression tightened. He dialed again, hitting a message box. “Hey, Sar, if you look up the age-outs for this past year and where they ended up, I’d appreciate a copy. Thanks—oh, and add the upcoming ones to that? My master might’ve just pulled a fuzzy on me.” Then someone else. “Lake Country Port, Naboo. Come pick up your corvette before she hares off again.”

He shut down his comm and returned to the meal.

“Depa has a son?” Obi-Wan asked, horrified. Not at the birth, exactly—accidents could happen—but Initiates aged out at _thirteen_. She wasn’t much older than he was! She must’ve been… His stomach churned. “ _How_?”

“Pit-sick,” Anakin repeated, as if that answered his question.

Obi-Wan stared at him, realizing…if he understood the ‘pit-sick’ as a reference to gladiator pits, that could explain a lot. He turned and looked in the direction that Depa had gone, but he didn’t see her. “She perceives people in terms of…alliance?”

“More like everyone’s a potential enemy. Or almost everyone—I’m pretty sure she doesn’t think of Garen like…” Quinlan stared at nothing as Paddy set another platter of pastries on the table.

“Master Quinlan, sir?” Anakin asked.

He relaxed and plucked a steaming pastry from the new platter. “Never mind.”

“How is this possible?” Obi-Wan asked. “She’s a _high councilor_.”

“Juniormost member,” Quin agreed. “It suits her.”

He couldn’t be serious.

Quinlan gave a little smile and shrug first, then turned serious. “The juniormost role is essentially a loner who acts as a fill-in for the various subsidiary functions that councilors can get up to.” He glanced at Anakin and said something in Huttese, probably translating.

“ _Oh_ ,” Anakin said. “Okay. I thought the council was like a…” He switched languages, and their conversation continued like that.

Obi-Wan couldn’t understand enough of what they were saying to be of any help—but then, wasn’t that the point? Quinlan was talking Anakin through a language barrier to help smoothen the teaching process.

They weren’t the only ones here, though, and Depa… If she _was_ ‘pit-sick’, was it really a good idea to leave her alone?

His stomach churned to the point that he didn’t think he’d be able to eat, though he needed to. She probably did, too, so Obi-Wan put a few fresh savory pastries on his plate and went looking for Depa.

* * *

The compress held water, not bacta, but the chill was sufficient to soothe his face. Jango Fett was pretty sure the _jetii_ he’d fought had cracked a few bones, but Dooku had retaliated for his failure by confiscating his medical supplies.

At least, Jango assumed Dooku was behind customs conveniently claiming ‘contamination’ on even fresh, unopened packets. He _had_ failed on the targets, and that brought a great deal of risk to the Sith.

Jango rinsed and wrung out his cold compress for reapplication. Considering Tachi’s reaction to what Dooku had done to his own padawan, odds were good that the Jedi-turned-Sith wouldn’t think anything of retaliating against _Boba_ , much less any of Jango’s allies here.

So, though he ached and would be a walking bruise come morning, he wasn’t hauling himself to the store or a med center to restock.

Just for the day, which would be long enough for the swelling and pain to really set in, then he’d see to treatment. There wouldn’t be any lasting damage from that, and masters liked knowing their examples had hit lasting pain.

Jango grimaced. The Kaminoans still needed him, fortunately, and a note appended to his latest medical report had warned that electrocution or asphyxiation would be particularly damaging to the genetic material.

He conveniently ignored the implications of the addendum being signed by “AR2”. He did _not_ want to piss off a witch who had allies like that _jetii_ woman who had beat him to a standstill _without_ going berserker.

(The _jetii_ had even bothered to keep bystanders out of it.)

(Except for those bruisers who were beating protection money out of someone.)

His public comm rang again—Taun We, checking on him.

He sighed and tapped for audio only, though she was smart enough to understand the implications of that. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll come see Boba day after next.”

Hopefully the day off, recuperating, would reassure her that he was taking proper care of himself, and dissuade her from trying to bring a medic or med droid. The situation with the _jetii_ was dangerous enough without that.

 _“What happened?”_ Taun We asked.

(Ancestors, that fight had been the most fun he’d had in ages.)

“Stalemate,” Jango said. “My target had an ally who delayed me long enough for them to escape kill range.”

Now he just had to wait for Dooku to decide if it was worth hunting the witch and her alleged teacher further, since killing someone _after_ they reported in was a good way to increase how seriously others took the report.

Maybe he’d pick up a smaller job in the Core, regardless, so he could see about getting his flute back.

* * *

The scent of Grandma Thule’s hsuberry candles soothed Padmé as she relaxed into the mattress…until she realized what, precisely, she was sensing.

This _wasn’t_ the palace.

She jolted awake, and dishes rattled downstairs, as if the person holding them had startled.

Padmé stared around her bedroom in her parents’ house, struggling to focus through bleary eyes, and unsure how she’d even gotten here. The last thing she’d remembered was falling asleep on Siri’s ship, after they were attacked by Jango Fett.

The footsteps coming up the stairs were sure and steady, without being slow, and her mother sidled in the room with a tray of steaming food. “You’ve lost too much weight,” Mom said, though she could stand to regain a little, herself. “Eat. Explain why my f…”

Padmé dug into the gripper fish over kelp noodles. “I’m not avoiding your food,” she insisted hurriedly—and truthfully, because her mother was quite adept at scenting lies. (Also an _excellent_ cook.)

Mom smiled a little as she watched Padmé. Surely she hadn’t looked _that_ thin?

Dad came in behind Mom, with another tray—smaller servings for both of them, so they were all going to eat with her. In her room. As if she was sick.

Padmé looked at her parents in confusion. “Mom, Dad, you know I love this, but…why? I’m fine.”

Her parents didn’t even look at each other, and Dad didn’t react.

Mom, though… Her expression pinched up. “That’s not what my fa—” She cut herself off and stabbed the plate with her fork.

Dad rubbed Mom’s back, gently. “The Jedi said you weren’t. In fact, he was quite irked with us for not telling him, ourselves.”

“That’s not quite what upset him,” Mom murmured.

Dad shrugged. “From a certain point of view.”

They exchanged a quick smile, indicating one of their inside jokes.

Padmé stared at them in confusion. “‘ _He_ ’? I was with Siri.”

The quick glance they shared was their normal when checking if one knew more than the other about something.

After a long moment—and _something_ in the Force, though Padmé couldn’t focus enough to tell what—Mom sighed and grabbed her plate. “I’ll go check on the custard.”

That left Padmé with her father, who ate in a pointed reminder for her to keep at her own meal.

She let a few bites pass before she asked, “Why am I here and not the palace?”

“Master Tholme brought you,” Dad answered easily. “His professional medical opinion was that you needed to sleep a few days, and he trusted us to handle that.” _Or, at least, he did_ went unsaid, as if the Jedi had learned something he hadn’t known before and had thereby lost that faith in them.

“Dad?” Padmé asked uncertainly.

He sighed. “My mother… You take after her more than anyone realizes. After her sister left the Jedi, _she_ tracked down her sister’s crechemates and dragged Jobal’s mother into the ensuing…adventures. Master Tholme was one of those crechemates.”

That could explain how much Nana had known about the Order, but… “She said Master Tholme was the only Jedi she knew.”

“She lied,” Dad said promptly, as if he was used to his mother doing that. “Or perhaps she meant he’s the only Jedi she knew well who’s still alive, which might be true. Master Tholme thought we were less aware of that than we are.”

“ _He_ is right that you need sleep, though,” her mother cut in, returning with a tray of shuura fruit custard. “ You’ve been under far too much stress, and you’re not taking care of yourself. Eat, and then _go back to sleep_.”

It was only later, after Padmé had enjoyed her favorite dessert and as she was drifting off, that she had the groggy thought that Mom had sounded remarkably like a Jedi planting a suggestion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update, yay! (I’m hoping to be able to get on a regular schedule of a chapter per month, but that depends on how some life stuff pans out.)
> 
> * * *
> 
> Fans of flamethrower’s [Re-Entry](https://archiveofourown.org/series/10129) series may notice a particular detail I’ve pulled from there regarding Garen. I like how it fits in what I’ve built.

The taste of iron filled Eirtaé’s mouth, and she spat the blood onto the stained flooring. “Don’t break my teeth!”

“Then keep your face away from my boot,” said the woman who was surely a case example of why Vos had wanted to organize her lessons himself, rather than let Tholme take care of it.

“I’m a House heir!” she snapped. “If you break my teeth, I have to get replacements grown, and that’ll draw attention to _how_ I broke them.” Ancestors _forbid_ a House heir have anything but natural body parts.

The narrowed blue-eyed gaze conveyed as much dubiousness as the scowl did.

“If you’ll restrain your assault, I’ll pull the protocol for you.” If Eirtaé’s irritation showed more than was strictly proper, well, introducing yourself to someone by saying you’re their teacher and proceeding to beat them up was usually _illegal_.

“You have _protocol_ for injuries?”

“It’s… We have reason.” She kept a wary eye on the woman as she called up _the Code for Those Born in Sunlight_. Come to think of it, she herself needed to read over the Starlight and Moonlight codes, for Amidala and herself respectively.

(…Did the Starlight-born even _know_ the codes? And come to think of it, were these actually laws, like her father insisted, or just proper etiquette? _Were_ these even accurate etiquette manuals, or just references leveraged by abusers to claim they were universal rules?)

“Ancestors,” she muttered. “What’s your comm code? I’ll forward you copies.”

They exchanged another long look, and she realized the other woman was _wary_.

“I’m not a Sith!” Eirtaé insisted.

“No,” the woman agreed, frowning. “But you’re no Jedi, either.”

As if she wanted to be one?

Something softened in the sharp blue eyes. “I’m known as the Dark Woman.”

Eirtaé raised her eyebrows. Someone who _self-identified_ as Darkened had no room to contest shades of gray. “Why?”

“I am but a servant of the Force. I _am_ my service, and service has no name.”

 _Shaak kark,_ Eirtaé bit her tongue to keep from saying, so she could keep focus on “Why do you call yourself that?”

“ _I_ don’t. It is the moniker others use for me, and therefore it is how I am known.”

 _At least she’s logically consistent?_ Eirtaé stared at her, tentatively seeking a sense of her aura. Wasn’t depersonalization a sign of a personality disorder? Or combat stress? (The latter being what Eirtaé herself was probably going to end up with by the end of her two weeks here, if their introduction was any indication.)

“And you don’t call yourself _anything_?” she double-checked.

“I am my service to the Force.”

“…I understand,” Eirtaé said, fearing she actually _did_.

* * *

Jedi Master Mace Windu was _not_ hiding.

His jaw ached something awful, and his eyes throbbed in time with his heartbeat, so he was taking a well-earned respite from the demands of his position as Master of the Order. His refuge was one of the lower-level meditation gardens that most had forgotten about and the Temple had stopped tending, probably generations ago. The surviving plants subsisted on the Force and bits of refracted light, producing a wild strangeness that felt unnatural to most.

For Mace, sitting here in the cool quiet dark, on a stone retaining wall barely visible from the overgrowth, was the closest he could get to the environment of his native Haruun Kal. He was Korun, born in and of the Force-filled jungle, not the greed-filled city, and sometimes he felt it.

Footsteps approached, quiet enough that he wouldn’t have noticed them if he weren’t keeping a passive attention on his surroundings. Light steps, slightly longer in stride than her sister’s, the soft presence in the Force announcing the gentle heart of a caregiver.

That aura wasn’t entirely honest, but it was far more accurate for her than it was for Depa.

“Sar,” he greeted her.

She took that as the permission to approach as it was, gripping a data reader so tightly that he wasn’t going to like her news. She eyed the stone he sat on, the expression of concern so familiar that it tugged his heartstrings, but she wiped some lichen with her sleeve before sitting primly.

Sar kept the proper half-meter between them, though he’d told her she didn’t have to do that. She wasn’t a daughter to him, but her sister was, and that made her closer kin than most of the Order.

“Master Windu,” she answered, keeping the formality. “Did you check Amidala’s shatterpoint?”

Mace grimaced at the memory. “Tachi’s report came in?”

She gave a nod.

“Her shatterpoints look as if someone used a shoddy eraser on a piece of flimsy and then drew over the result,” he said bluntly. “Visions don’t cause that.”

“Not as far as we know,” she allowed. “It…fits with what she told me, though, if I assume she spoke literally rather than figuratively. It also explains…”

Sar frowned at the data reader.

He didn’t want to know, but he needed to ask: “Is Amidala even _sane_?”

“I don’t think so,” she said quietly. “She’s not Depa—I don’t think she’s going to kill anyone when she snaps. But with her mental talents, she could easily inflict a lot of damage unintentionally, like what happened to Reeft.”

Padawan Reeft couldn’t handle the bustle of Coruscant to this day, his mental shields still recovering from having the anchors shredded most of a decade ago. Sar blamed herself for that, because the mental pulse wouldn’t have been nearly so powerful if she hadn’t been aligned with Depa’s mental state at the time.

Alignment between Force-bonded persons produced a synergy that made whatever they were doing more efficient and effective, whether that was healing an injury or levitating an object. Biological kin had Force bonds, though the Coruscant Order promoted ignoring or suppressing those ones—a major reason Sar and Depa had decided to pretend they hadn’t realized they were sisters.

Muln had been there, too, but it turned out that he made the most of his not- _that_ -powerful mental shields with some impressive engineering. His shields were designed to shunt attacks away, rather than to block them directly, so he’d gotten through the incident with a migraine and a nosebleed. His shielding method took a complicated, professional understanding of mechanics to be able to implement—Mace himself couldn’t replicate it—but there was no denying its effectiveness.

Muln had even kept his wits and stopped the unintentional mental attack by shooting Depa with the blaster that his master had given him. (Not that anyone was sure _why_ the Pilot-Knight had given her thirteen-year-old padawan a blaster for his birthday. When asked, Clee just smiled and commented on how it suited him.)

Depa had shown a preference for Muln ever since, which Mace tried not to think about too much.

Sar was still sitting on the wall, though she’d admitted before that she found this garden ominous, not soothing.

“Naboo will be getting a Watchman,” he told her, though he was probably going to have to use his discretionary override to _force_ the assignment through. “I’ll make sure the one assigned has good shielding.”

She nodded once in acceptance, but she didn’t leave. Mace left her to the silence, trusting she’d speak when she felt up to it.

Minutes passed.

Finally, she asked, “May I poison Master Tholme?”

Mace startled. “Physical violence? That’s usually Depa’s preference.”

“Yes,” Sar agreed. “It’s been a while since she’s buzzed in the back of my head like this. Glad it wasn’t worse, but if this is affecting _me_ , what about—?”

She looked away, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth. Sar had far more practice in mitigating others’ emotions—especially her sister’s, through their family bond—than she did her own.

Being denied a padawan you’d been eyeing for years, because an administrative vote forbade it at the last minute, was good reason to be upset.

Mace sighed. “For what it’s worth, I think he would’ve made a fine knight, if he hadn’t decided to join the Corps.”

“But he _didn’t_ , Master Windu.” Sar shook her head, still not looking at him. “I checked the transcripts for the session. Ferus said he would accept assignment to the Corps if given, but he felt he was called to be a Jedi.”

Mace stared at her. “You’re telling me he was shipped off _early_ , without his consent,” which he himself had been misled about. “What does this have to do with Tholme? I thought he abstained from commenting on your arguments.”

The narrowed gaze Sar fixed on him matched Depa’s when annoyed. “He did. Which was interpreted as condemnation, because I was arguing the same way he would. Force, I argued the same way he _did_ , when insisting he should be the one to teach Quin even though they were technically family!”

No wonder Sar was furious with Tholme. She’d had every reason to expect his support—and the boy being sent away early was exactly the sort of thing that sneaky bastard would do to block Sar’s right to appeal.

“The colony Ferus is supposed to help farm is on the Outer Rim, Master Windu. A twelve-year-old Force-sensitive child, with Jedi talents, was shipped into _Hutt space_.”

Mace’s gut writhed with the memory of what had happened when he’d foolishly taken his own twelve-year-old padawan on a mission out there. “He never arrived.” 

“He’s not the only one, either.” Sar offered him the data reader, which Mace seriously didn’t want to take. “And more are going missing after they start working, usually while in transit to another assignment.”

That pattern meant the kidnappers had insider information. She was saying that “Someone’s selling us.”

* * *

Depa was not an easy person to follow.

Obi-Wan pulled on lessons from Mandalore, taught by the woman he loved as much as he did Siri, and followed the empathic resonances of the _bes’bev_ rather than the Jedi Master, herself, who was camouflaging herself in the Force as if she was a sister padawan to Quinlan.

Even so, he wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to find her if not for the squawking of a flute that she obviously didn’t know how to play. The sound drew his attention up, to the roof.

With the Force, he jumped, keeping the plate and its contents steady, and then he climbed to join her where she sat, at the pinnacle.

Obi-Wan wasn’t a musician, himself, but he was pretty sure flutes weren’t supposed to be held or blown into like _that_.

Depa didn’t look at him, just kept fiddling with the instrument, apparently unbothered by her own incompetence as she puzzled over how it was _supposed_ to be used.

He made sure to shuffle a little as he approached, to give fair warning. She ignored him, and he sat beside her, with the plate between them. He let it clink as he set it down, balanced on the joint where the sides of the roof met.

Minutes passed. He made himself eat a pastry. It was very good, and something in the spices made him think of Quin.

Depa finally lowered the flute, clutching it in a fist, but still didn’t look at him. She was staring out towards the mountains, though he was pretty sure she wasn’t seeing them. “Why did you call me here, Obi-Wan?”

“For help with Anakin,” he said. “You’re better at programming than I am.”

That was true, though he hadn’t remembered it until he was midsentence.

What else did he know about her? She was skilled with Form III, the defensive form that could’ve saved Qui-Gon’s life. Tears stung his eyes, but he called on the Force to stop that. “I’d like to learn Soresu, myself, if you’re willing to teach _me_.”

She eyed him, doubtless picking up on the empathic resonance of what he’d suppressed. He made himself take a bite of another pastry, tacitly indicating he didn’t want to talk about that.

Depa was known for that, her sensitivity to others. It was a strange Force talent for a killer. But now that he thought about it, even her Council seat was unusual; Force Empaths were usually Consulars, not Guardians. Healers like Bant, or diplomats like Luminara.

The pastry really was delicious.

“They’re Quin’s recipe,” she said, nodding to what he was eating.

Quin _did_ know Paddy, then? “You’ve been here before?”

“You’ve been a slave. Skywalker said.”

Obi-Wan didn’t understand what that had to do with her presence here before, unless… He stared at her, horror churning in his gut. “Your child? You had him _here_?”

Something sharpened in the Force. The predator, noticing a potential target. He drew himself in, both in the Force and physically, letting his poise say _not a threat_ , even while he kept himself from cowering as prey. Satine had needed that sometimes, too, when those hunting them had left them particularly trapped.

“I don’t know if young was his usual preference, but he wanted Force-sensitive children with someone he could…overpower.”

Depa _felt_ brittle, poised to shatter, for all that her voice was calm.

“Quin found me.” Her voice faded. She swallowed hard. “Mace was a councilor. Not Master of the Order yet. Not _then_. I was thirteen. Tholme had a friend here who watched us while he went on missions and let people think Quin and I were around. If I was with him, I couldn’t possibly be _pregnant_ , now could I?”

Obi-Wan forced his tone to be light, as he focused on a safer part of what she’d said. “A _friend_ , eh?”

She wrinkled her nose at him, the damage sinking beneath her usual calm exterior as if it had never been. “Not _that_ kind of friend. Not with Master _Tholme_.”

He eyed her, uncertain if he should be relieved or leery that she shifted moods so quickly. He knew her as a placid lake, unaffected by anything around it, who enjoyed a good prank.

“Garen,” Depa said simply.

“I’m sorry?” Garen was Obi-Wan’s age. Was she saying the friend was a pedophile?

She snorted, reminding him that her talent for empathy included a knack for _telepathy_ , as well, though that particular strength in the Force was rare enough that she should’ve been outright discouraged from ending up a Guardian. “You _are_ aware that he’s Master Micah’s son?”

He blinked. Master Micah had been the Combat Master, before his death. Garen was…not gifted that way. “No. No, I was not.”

“No?” She plucked a pastry from the plate, nibbled at it. “His mother hosted us here.”

He stared at her. “Is that why you brought his ship here?” _Without_ Garen’s permission, he was starting to suspect.

She frowned a moment before her expression shifted into a bright-eyed smile that made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. “Great idea!”

“What?! No, that wasn’t a—”

Too late. She’d already leapt off the roof and…started _swimming_ across the lake?

Sabé’s warnings about water creatures entered his mind. _Maybe_ Depa already knew about them, since she’d been here before, but…Jedi _Master_ or not, high councilor or not, he didn’t dare assume she was in any condition to take care of herself.

He ran after her.

* * *

After Master Obi-Wan left the room, Anakin started tightening, a sense of danger building in his stomach. The conversation slowed and stuttered until it faltered to a stop, and Master Quinlan _let_ it.

The tension lay thick on the air.

“I don’t trust you,” Anakin blurted—something he’d said before, but he _had_ to say something, just to be able to _breathe_.

Master Quinlan eyed him with hardly a pause in his lunch, plucking the plate from the table and scooting _away_.

Anakin flushed at the implied assumption. “I— That didn’t happen to _me_.”

“I’m sure not everyone in the slave quarter was as fortunate.” Master Quinlan finished his latest pastry—just how many meals had he _missed_?—and stuck the plate on the table, without drawing closer. “Qui-Gon— No, that’s the wrong angle. You needled Depa, pulled her attention off me. Why?”

He obviously _understood_ , so why was he asking?Anakin hesitated but admitted, “She was hurting you to help herself feel better.”

“So? You don’t like me.”

“It’s still wrong.”

“ _Precisely_ ,” Master Quinlan said. “Jedi do what’s right, regardless how we feel. Now. How do you know what’s right?”

“Mom says—” The words lodged in his throat.

After long moment, Master Quinlan said, “Sorry. Let’s leave that alone for now, then.”

The Kiffar’s hand twitched towards the platter of pastries, then clenched into a fist and lowered to his side. Anakin watched that warily. He wasn’t getting anger from him, but…

“Skywalker,” Master Quinlan said gently, holding himself still, “have you figured out _why_ I make you uneasy yet?”

“You feel like the sentients that take advantage of Watto when the gambling’s been bad.” He stiffened. Why did he _say_ that?

“Because I _am_ that sort,” the Jedi replied, still gentle. “My job, in the Order, means I have to fit in with self-absorbed assholes. _Most Jedi_ think I’m a self-absorbed asshole.”

“Are you?” Anakin bit his lip. It wasn’t as if he could trust Master Quinlan’s answer anyway.

“If it looks and acts like a Tusken, does it matter what species is under the robes?”

The Tatooine idiom snagged Anakin’s attention, but not enough that he didn’t notice… The Kiffar held himself as self-assured and confident as ever, but bodies lied so easily.

“ _I’m_ free,” Anakin said slowly, his gut churning as he realized, “but _you’re_ not.”

Master Quinlan’s stillness gained a different quality, and his aura _flexed_ in the Force.

The sense of a _trapped_ sentient was too obvious, now that Anakin realized what he was feeling. “I don’t understand. _You_ ’re a slave?”

“I’m not.” The Kiffar caught his look. “Seriously, I’m not. I think I know what you’re noticing, but I’m not even allowed to talk about that with _my_ padawan, Skywalker.”

“May I, then?” asked an older, female voice from behind them.

* * *

Getting startled by someone he hadn’t sensed meant Quinlan was on his feet, weapon in hand, before he turned.

Anakin jumped, too, but the woman herself was smiling patiently without flinching, for all that she wore a plain brown dress—definitely not handmaiden quality—and had her hair tied back, with a basket of laundry on her hip. The cut and fabric looked even plainer and rougher than Paddy’s preferences.

“Oh, hi,” Anakin said. “Uh, Master Quinlan, sir. This is Ryoo. She’s helping us today instead of one of Padmé’s handmaidens.”

Ryoo? He’d heard that name before. Jobal Naberrie’s mother, so—“Lady Thule?”

“Just Ryoo, please. I’m Housed, not of a House. My family are retainers for the Naberries, usually tending the shaak herds. I volunteered to help Paddy around here, so the girls can have their vacation.”

Quinlan started edging around the table towards the kid, for a better position to protect him. “That doesn’t explain how you think you know what I’m not telling Skywalker.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Ryoo said. “I know because Tahl told me.”

Tahl was just popping up everywhere, lately. Impressive, for a Jedi who’d been dead for the better part of a decade.

“You know Master Tahl?” Anakin asked. “I met her last night. Er. Sort of.”

“Oh?”Ryoo moved carefully to put the basket down on the far side of the table. “She’s a ghost?”

This woman’s daughter had displayed Force sensitivity in front of him, but she hadn’t yet. Intentional, coincidental, or telling?

He made himself relax and oh-so-casually grab another pastry. “How’d you know Master Tahl?”

“You’ll have to ask your stepfather about that.”

Tholme _had_ essentially adopted him, to keep the clan’s new sheyf from being able to reclaim him through the courts. But that wasn’t something someone could know by public record or by Order practice, only by understanding Kiffar clans and some esoteric details about clan Vos specifically.

“ _Good_ guess,” he said, both a compliment and a warning.

Ryoo froze in the middle of reaching for a pastry of her own and slowly withdrew her hand. “I apologize. Winama was the one who enjoyed the game. I was obligated to play for a time, and I have much respect for the sentients who live it, but I have never missed it.”

Yet records said _Winama Naberrie_ was the one who’d known Jedi. Not this woman. Why?

“Master Quinlan?” Anakin asked uneasily.

“Nothing to worry about,” he lied lightly, then made an idle, unwarranted leap of logic to fish a reaction out of her: “Just one of my master’s old girlfriends, dancing around the admission.”

Ryoo gave him a flat look. “Nonsense. I’m the whore he slept with to test if he could enjoy Humans at all.”

She winced and cast Anakin an apologetic glance, consistent with that admission having been an accident, but the content indicated she probably _did_ actually know Tholme. Quinlan would have to ask. And check the database for data on her, to see if his clearance codes found more than his padawan’s had, while he was at it.

“Retainers are slaves?” Anakin asked uneasily.

“ _No_!” she snapped—almost before the kid finished speaking, so possible talent for telepathy, there. “No, we are servants, and we can leave whenever we choose. My occupation when I met Tholme was such a choice. My family is why Winama knew I could be helpful when she was rescuing him. She paid my debts, we ran a bar on Coruscant for a few years to ensure my former clients conveniently forgot about me, and we came back home and raised our children.”

Winama Naberrie had been credited with rescuing Jedi Padawans from Zygerria. Ryoo Thule had admitted that her family tended shaak herds, suggesting animal empathy—which would be quite useful, on such a mission, and could include a mild passive, subconscious telepathy.

Ryoo also said she’d slept with his master, with a justification that actually _fit_ Tholme.

 _Neither_ of Padmé’s parents had thought anything of using the Force around him.

And Master Tahl had _stayed in touch_ , through those two growing up, marrying, and deciding to raise a Jedi-strong child beside a normal one.

“Your _illegitimate_ children,” Quinlan said aloud. “Sired on _Coruscant_.”

Ryoo froze. “Oh,” she murmured. “You’re good. Your stepfather must love that.”

Again with the reference to she wasn’t supposed to know—an admission that she probably _did_ know what he wasn’t allowed to share, himself. “That’s not up for discussion.”

“Very well.” She turned her smile on Anakin.“I apologize for upsetting you.”

“I’m not upset.” Anakin sounded a little confused. Understandable; a slave wouldn’t have perceived anything inappropriate about what she said.

A memory over a decade old struck him, of the first time he’d stayed here: Winnie, chatting about lightsabers in terms of Master _Micah’s_ preferences.

Force, this ‘peaceful’ mission was proving to be an exhausting _mess_. “That explains the blaster talents.”

“I’m sorry?” Ryoo asked.

“Judging from the security footage I saw, your granddaughter is better with her blaster than any of her guards.” Every fripping shot she’d made had resulted in one downed droid. The most consistent follow-up had been the oldest handmaiden, a retired half-Corellian intelligence operative, whose skills surpassed those of even Amidala’s chief of security.

Ryoo winced, tacitly confirming his guess on that one, too. “Fortunately, Ruwee didn’t get his father’s temperament with his talent, or he’d be very unhappy now.” She hesitated. “That’s not to say either of them are unable to defend themselves. They’re just…”

He considered her, why she would be telling _him_ all this now. “You never told the fathers.”

The smile she answered with was pained.

So _that_ was what had bothered Tholme about Amidala. He would’ve noticed the Force niggling at him about her, but he wouldn’t have understood _why_.

Which also explained why Miss Thule was saying something now. _Both_ Amidala’s grandfathers had been Jedi, and apparently both grandmothers had been Force-users native to Naboo. No wonder the girl was so strong in the Force. But with that kind of lineage, why was Sola not?

Maybe she was, but lineage gave her dangerous rogue talents that the family quietly kept suppressed? That would explain some of the resentment, too, and set the stage for how angry she was over whatever had happened to Amidala six years ago.

Quinlan rubbed his eyes, not looking forward to having to be the one to tell his master about the daughter he’d never known he had, much less the granddaughters. “ _Why_ didn’t you tell him?”

Ryoo glanced at Anakin, sighed. “Your master walks in the shadows, Master Jedi.”

That was how Master Tholme described his work, yes, but something cold twisted in Quinlan’s stomach. He pulled out his data reader and ran a search he should’ve thought to try _years_ ago. “He mind-fripped me.”

“Shunted, really,” she corrected quietly, though she obviously understood that wasn’t much better.

“ _Tholme_ —” The disbelief, the hurt, was too strong. Quinlan drew a breath and took the time to yank the emotions and slam them into the Force, with a silent apology to Skywalker. “You know who his master was? —Of course you do. Don’t tell me. Dear _Force_.”

He had wondered, sometimes, why his master only used the one name, and why a _Healer_  would join the Shadows. Yet he had somehow never noticed that _nobody_ ever spoke of Tholme’s master.

Not Tholme. Not his age mates. Not even the Jedi older than that.

And that sort of silence, combined with the lack of public record and mental adjustment to keep him from noticing the absence, ensued from abuse so bad that there was no possible angle to ‘spin’ it as helpful. Even Master Kuro wasn’t shunned, and at least a third of those who knew about her was convinced she was a closet Darksider.

“Master Tholme was hurt by _his_ master?” Anakin asked.

“Looks that way,” Quinlan said. “Frip it. Is _everybody_ an abusive shit or survivor of one?”

“Probabilities can certainly give that impression, can’t they?” Miss Thule commented with _amusement_ , reminding him so much of Tholme that he suddenly had a sick feeling about why they’d gotten along so well. She’d admitted to breaking away from her family to be a _whore_ , on _purpose_ , and that…was something youth usually chose to do for a specific reason.

He stared at the platter of pastries, wanting to eat before he forgot again but pretty sure he’d throw up if he tried. “No wonder my master’s ideal frip is a _tree_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Quinlan. He’s making assumptions based on probability, which Ryoo comments on, but his conclusion about Tholme’s experiences may or may not be accurate. After all, the fact that certain consequences result from a particular cause doesn’t mean that’s the _only_ possible cause. And _faking_ that sort of background would be entirely consistent with Tholme, too, and all the silence could be to protect said master from the repercussions of his erstwhile padawan’s actions.
> 
> If you consider the timeline I’ve set, based on Legends!canon: Tholme started a Healer, but then right about when he was going to be graduating, the Zygerria thing happened, which could’ve introduced Healer Tholme into the concept and importance of Sentinel work, plus his crechemate’s sister showed up with a friend and illustrated “Hey, other Force traditions can help with shit, too!” That crechemate herself left the Order because she thought it was too violent, and she was treated harshly enough that she refused to tell her sister who her master was. Tholme _could_ have just learned from all that and probably some other abuse cases and dynamics he would’ve witnessed in his capacity as a healer, and orchestrated for others to make assumptions that snowballed.
> 
> Of course, Quinlan _could_ also be correct. He’s just not necessarily so.
> 
> Technically, he’s also not necessarily correct about Padmé’s ancestry—he does make some leaps of logic—although Ryoo has tacitly supported his conclusions.
> 
> The communication and information processing methods that I "read" him as having do have downsides. :-)


	3. Chapter 3

After the literally bruising session was over, ’the Dark Woman’ took Eirtaé to a cheap motel that reinforced her suspicion that the Jedi had seriously shitty mental health. She fought the urge to sneeze from the reek of perfume and other things she wasn’t sure she _wanted_ to identify, whether the source was drugs or sex or some unholy blend of both.

“What’s wrong with where we were?” she asked as the Jedi prepared to pay for a few hours, to rest, because maybe there was a reason she just didn’t know about.

Something lurched, deep in the Dark Woman’s aura. Eirtaé couldn’t tell what it was—it was too far in—just saw the ripples that resulted on the surface.

“We keep moving,” the Jedi said, tone final.

Eirtaé eyed her warily, for that wasn’t an answer—and there so obviously was a Very Bad story behind that decision. Remembering Vos’s efforts to keep _his_ apprentice separate from his interactions with Eirtaé, she forced a smile. “Don’t want your padawan finding you?”

Something cold swirled in the Jedi like a whirlpool, and the seconds of silence were so obviously a heavy no. Something was very _wrong_ , there.

When Eirtaé panicked, Vos helped distract her, helped her find a task to focus on. She hesitated, then gestured towards the last news stand they’d passed, on their way here. “We’ll be looking into the alleged bacta shortage, then?”

The Dark Woman frowned at her. “Alleged?”

How foolish did the Jedi think her? “The timing _is_ convenient.”

The frown remained.

Eirtaé adjusted her jaw so she wouldn’t clench her teeth. “Naboo?” she asked pointedly. “They’re announcing a bacta shortage _right_ when we need to buy it.”

…Which would be very much like now-Chancellor Palpatine to orchestrate, if he were genuinely the one behind the blockade and invasion. Maybe it was a punishment. Father would certainly retaliate like that, and she had the sense that the chancellor was the same sort, even though she _couldn’t remember_.

Which in itself was probably a warning, according to Vos.

She sighed.

When she glanced to the Jedi again, she found that the woman was _still_ frowning.

“You’re Naboo?”

Oh dear ancestors or gods or Force or whoever in the galaxy was listening to her think, right now. “What did Jedi Tholme tell you about me, exactly?”

The Dark Woman hesitated, then said, “You’re a Force-sensitive contact of Quinlan’s who needs a crash course in how to keep yourself alive before he gets you killed.”

Seriously? They were assuming _Vos_ was going to be the death of her?

And if they thought that little of him, what did that say about their willingness to let him teach Secura?

Eirtaé was going to _shoot_ Tholme.

* * *

_‘That braid you wear_ means _something! I thought you respected that!’_

Siri Tachi winced from the memory, oh so fresh, delivered almost as soon as she’d set foot in the motel room that had been their rendezvous point. She _hated_ sitting still, hated meditating, but she forced herself to do it, to take the memory of her master’s sincere disappointment and hurt and anger—oh so strong, since Master Adi had never accounted for Siri’s mental talents with her shielding. Master Adi hadn’t known to.

The deckplate was grainy and cold under her ass.

_‘I thought I knew you!’_

Siri’s laugh came out choked, punctuated with tears, and it was something she seriously needed to _get under control_ before she could become Zora and vanish into the shadows. Krayn _hated_ Jedi, would kill her if he got even the slightest inkling that she had been one. She could _not_ afford this.

She could compartmentalize. That was how she locked up her feelings for—for someone else she wasn’t going to think about.

Cross-legged wasn’t working.

She pulled up her knees and screamed into them. Her efforts _weren’t working_.

And by the Force, she _needed_ them to work!

She needed help, needed support, but she couldn’t afford to get any. Calling another Jedi would be stupid, suicidal—she’d already swapped out the comm packs, made the initial physical changes to the ship to distance it from the one she’d received. (There would be more mods, later, but she had to earn the credits, first.)

Calling someone who presumably hated Jedi might work. Might even _help_ , if Krayn found out ‘Zora’ had once been Siri. If the first thing she did after leaving the Order was contacting someone who supposedly wanted them all dead…

Siri pulled herself up, plopped back in the pilot’s seat, and stared at the comm. Did she dare call? It had been weird enough when the woman contacted _her_ , desperate for advice but unwilling to jeopardize Obi-Wan’s place in the Order to get it.

“Oh frip it all,” she muttered. The woman had dared ask Siri for a favor that could’ve easily gotten her shot instead of helped. Siri could in the very least reciprocate that trust.

Her call went straight to the message box.

She drew a breath. “Hey, how’s Korkie doing? Look, I’m sorry to ask you this, but I need some help…”

* * *

With his mission to Malastaire passed on to someone who _hadn’t_ had their corvette stolen, Jedi Knight Garen Muln had been reassigned to helping the maintenance crew, at the moment. Some tasks required awkward and dangerous maneuvering midair, conventionally done on wires, and it was always safer to have a telekinetic on-hand for that.

Critics might have called the Jedi Order baby-stealers who didn’t care about non-Sensitives, but the Order did its best to keep their non-Sensitive employees _safe_. Usually the Mechanics Corps handled this sort of task, but it wasn’t unheard-of for a mechanically-inclined Jedi to fill in when awaiting orders.

That made excellent cover for what Garen was _actually_ doing.

His liquid cable, tethered to the ceiling, held him aloft so he could carefully examine and document the Agri Corps cargo hauler. Did he _know_ why he was looking for score marks or other signs of violence? No. Depa’s abrupt theft of his corvette sure gave him a suspicion, though.

(Not that he actually knew for certain what had happened to her, either, but…how long she’d been gone from the Temple? The fact that _Quinlan_ knew whatever it was? The way nobody was pushing her to take a padawan? Her council seat? Her extreme care to avoid being startled? There weren’t many options that fit all those details.)

While maneuvering to process another patch of paneling, he glimpsed Knight Sar Labooda standing awkwardly on a walkway below, holding her robes over an oil spill and leaning away from some dirty grease on the railing beside her. It was a passing detail, something that he noticed but took a few seconds to realize _Knight Labooda was in the Temple hangar_.

Mind healers rarely left the Temple, and Sar Labooda was fastidious to the point that Depa actually _didn’t_ prank her about it.

(Depa at least tried to avoid being cruel— _tried_ being the operative word, there. Most who knew about the Fountain Incident still shuddered over it—she’d stuck red dye, thickening agent, and wax heads of high councilors in the Room of Thousand Fountains. The initiate credited with finding it was Quinlan’s padawan now, which some claimed was ‘proof’ of their belief that Depa was naïve and Quinlan took advantage to get her to claim responsibility for some of his shit. It was as if nobody remembered that time in the creche when a padawan on caretaker duty pinched Sar—which had actually been before Garen’s time, but Luminara would sometimes share details when she was drunk enough.)

Garen eyed Sar. She was scanning with the Force, looking for someone…

He flared his aura a bit—a hello, for someone with her mental talents.

She immediately looked up towards him, expectantly.

He sighed at the interruption, carefully recorded where he was leaving off, then headed down. He minded where his boots hit upon landing, not wanting to splash. (Sar could be _really_ prickly about her robes.)

She hesitated, uneasily, then passed him the flimsy in her hand.

Garen looked at the printout of his new orders, rereading them twice before looking at her.

Sar just met his gaze, placidly, as if she _wasn’t_ about to take the biggest risk of her life.

He opened his mouth, glanced at the witnesses, then guided her over to the corvette she’d…requisitioned, per the flimsy. A travel pack was already just inside, so she’d prepared before approaching him.

She picked up that pack as he shut the airlock behind them.

He fanned himself with the flimsy. “There’s no approval signature on this.”

Sar didn’t so much as flinch.

“Are you _sure_ you want me to take you to Naboo?” he pressed. “It’s going to fall on you. People will believe I didn’t notice the approval signature, and maybe I’ll have some extra paperwork for a while, but you’ll be the one who’s usurped Order resources for a mission of your own making.”

Annoyance tightened her eyes. “Do you lecture Depa, as well?”

”No. I already know Depa only gives a frip insofar as her actions have repercussions on Master Windu.”

Sar huffed—maybe amusement, maybe annoyance. He didn’t know her well enough to guess, and that wasn’t a mannerism Depa shared. “I thought you’d want the chance to pick up your corvette.”

Sooner _would_ be better for that.

He came to a decision. “Reeft says his shields have stabilized. He’s hoping to be able to return to Coruscant in a few months.”

She recognized that as acceptance and headed for the cockpit.

He took in a breath, held it, and quickly typed a message to Master Windu, saying he was assuming the new assignment was a detour and he’d pick up his review of the cargo hauler when he got back.

He hoped he wouldn’t regret this, but he _really_ wanted his corvette back before Depa did something stupid like prioritized it over her own safety.

* * *

The palace was quiet, most taking advantage of the mourning period to confirm the survivors among their friends and family. There were funerals and celebrations happening all over Theed and even Naboo.

There were still enough people tending the library for it to be open, though. Rabé hoped that wasn’t due to her visits, which hadn’t stopped after finding that damning detail about Eirtaé. (Speaking of Eirtaé, she’d _obviously_ had a suspicion about who her biological father had been, so who? And where had she gone?)

The cafeteria was running, too, but that was visibly lower in staff and food preparation. Rabé took advantage of it, though, since the meals were free for royal staff.

She’d taken a hard look at her finances and adjusted her budget so she could conveniently save more of it, to utilize as her own education budget. She made sure to keep her shopping locations and amounts consistent, just in case they were being watched—she didn’t want to alert Captain Panaka she was acting behind his back—but she withdrew credit orders instead of buying that nutty mocha she loved so dearly, or the olives…

Her stomach growled, the memory of the treats feeling so much more appetizing than the slightly overdone stuffed tomatoes that were her lunch. She sighed.

As she stepped out to of the serving area find a seat, laughter caught her ear. She looked up and out to glimpse Sabé by the cloister tables, grinning at something, speaking to nobody… Ah, but that comm by her would explain the chatter.

Sabé was relaxed in a way Rabé had rarely seen before, and she’d certainly never seen that grin _stay_ on the younger girl’s face.

What secret _did_ Captain Panaka have over her?

Rabé hesitated but figured she might as well approach.

“Fa, no!” Sabé said to her comm. “Which of us have actually been to Coruscant, again?”

Rabé wasn’t quite close enough to comprehend the reply, but it sounded like an invective against purses.

“ _Of course_ , Fa. _Every_ group has its idiots and jerks who take advantage. The _Jedi_ have their idiots and jerks—that one who died for our queen being a case in point, considering Her Highness outright _warned_ him…”

While speaking Sabé gestured her acceptance of Rabé’s nonverbal request to sit.

Sabé had taken very easily to the handmaidens’ lessons in nonverbal communication.

Rabé frowned. “You weren’t a gymnast, were you?”

Sabé froze, stiff, then took a bracing breath. “Fa? I’ll call you back later. Stay sober!” She shut down the comm, looked to Rabé. “No, I wasn’t. Yané, you might want to be part of this conversation.”

Rabé startled.

Fabric rustled from the direction of the nearby cloister tables, and Yané edged herself out. Rabé hadn’t even glimpsed her back there. How had Sabé known it?

As for Yané’s hunching, the leeriess… Rabé recognized those from her cousins. Asking Sabé to share a secret warranted sharing one of her own, like that she noticed and understood what she was seeing, though she was only a few years older than Sabé.

“Hiding from your father?” she asked sympathetically.

Yané froze.

“Her _father_?” Sabé’s confusion was palpable. “Her mother’s the one she hardly dares breathe around.”

Yané, pale-faced and wide-eyed, trembled.

“ _Gods_!” Sabé muttered, jumping to her feet and reaching to be poised to catch the younger girl if she fell. “I’m sorry. I should’ve— Oh, well, you’re not the only one with secrets, okay? I’m a water mime.”

_What?_

Sabé swallowed hard. “I mean, I _was_ a water mime, and talking with Anakin made me realize that slavery being illegal here doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Some people break laws. That’ll apply to the anti-slavery ones, too. And I’m gonna use my status as an Unhoused primary handmaiden to look for slaves and _do_ something about it.”

_Unhoused_?

That explained so much.

Rabé still stared at Sabé, though, as she realized something. “You’re the only one of us on the decoy protocol.”

“Yes, I’m trying to get my father in on this so he can continue it even if an assassin gets me.”

“No,” Rabé said, blood rushing in her ears. “You’re _the only decoy_.”

“For now,” Sabé said matter-of-factly. “The plan is to expand it as suitable volunteers are found.”

Was she ignoring or missing the oh so obvious?

A sharp breath came from Yané, as if she’d just caught on.

Rabé sat heavily, letting her tray hit the table by Sabé’s tray. Yané hesitated, then followed her lead. Yané tended to follow leads.

Sabé was frowning in confusion, but she also returned to her meal.

Taking a bite of overdone stuffed tomato bought Rabé a few seconds, especially with how the tea splashed on it actually _helped_ the texture. She waved her fork in Yané’s general direction. “You’re not of a House, right?”

The girl gulped and shook her head.

Rabé indicated her tomato, which was no worse off than their own lunches. (Sabé apparently preferred eggplant.) “Is _anyone_ of a House on-site, right now?”

“No,” Sabé said slowly, as if testing for what she was missing. “That would be _why_ they’re serving secondrate food.”

The slight nod from Yané was so obviously agreement.

Rabé stared at them both. “Do you have _any_ idea how illegal that is?”

“…Some people break laws,” Sabé repeated, pointedly.

“Laws only matter insofar as they’re enforced,” Yané said quietly— _too_ quietly, barely audible and Rabé was sitting _right there_. Did Yané share her opinion more often than any of them noticed, because they couldn’t hear her? “That’s why King Veruna got away with everything.”

“And Panaka got his job under him,” Rabé said aloud—not loudly, but louder than was probably wise, considering… “Frip an uberfish through the planet core.”

Yané’s face went blank, fear flickering in her eyes.

Sabé blinked. “That would take a unique diving apparatus.”

With the picture getting drawn in the sand about their jobs, Rabé wasn’t about to throw the others into the waves. “One of the Jedi visitors asked me to send a copy of our curriculum, for him to suggest further reading for me. I’m thinking of just asking him for advice altogether, for all of us. Ditch Panaka; train ourselves.”

“Won’t he notice that when he tests us, though?” Yané asked, voice weak and wobbling. “That’s how Mom keeps sabotaging my graduation. She keeps setting up these tests of what I’m learning, and I keep falling into them and then she…she…”

The younger girl’s breathing went fast and shallow.

Sabé frowned. “You’re not an adult yet? I had to get my majority to get hired.”

“Worker’s dispensations are possible,” Rabé explaind, “but only if you’ve completed sufficient core coursework to be theoretically able to pass the majority exam.”

The younger girl’s dark eyes kept darting back and forth between them, watching for…what?

Watching for disbelief or doubt, Rabé realized. Watching that they were still safe to keep conversing with. She was struggling to properly _breathe_ and still wary of danger.

How _dare_ the woman do this to her own daughter.

Rabé’s gaze met Sabé’s, and her own anger was mirrored there.

Sabé had a bag by her feet, and she rummaged a bit before pulling out some flimsy and a stylus. “What’s your ID, and what are your classes like? There’s gotta be some way to get the test.”

“There’ll be a fee for the exam,” Rabé said. Sabé’s would’ve been covered as part of her hiring package. “Her mom’s getting her paycheck.”

Sabé paused. “Okay, so we cover her fee. Now how do we keep her away from her mother?”

Yané mewled a little sound of disbelief that Rabé _never_ wanted to hear again. Sabé flinched.

Rabé considered how Eirtaé had manipulated Panaka, how Saché had insinuated that Eirtaé might have Jedi powers like the queen…and how addled Her Highness was upon coming out of her visions.

She lifted her chin, looking the other two dead in the eyes. “It’s a good thing we all have special assignments from the queen herself, isn’t it? Whether or not she remembers giving them to us?”

Sabé stared at Rabé in clear surprise.

Yané, though, frowned shrewdly, even as her hands shook. “Does she remember firing Panaka?”

Considering the precedents he’d been setting with his abuse of Sabé and the rest of them, that was a good point. “I like how you think.”

“Now, that’s too far,” Sabé protested.

“Too fast,” Rabé countered, “but we might need to risk it. How do you think he’s going to react once he understands _the queen has Jedi powers_?”

Yané clasped her hands together, tightly. “You’re thinking reputation sabotage.”

“To reduce how many take him seriously once he loses his temper with _her_ ,” Rabé agreed.

Sabé mouthed _oh_.

Yané slowly smiled and carefully reached for her fork, struggling to keep her fingers and breathing steady at the same time. “If you help me get my majority, I can be leverage for both.”

Both getting him fired and reputation sabotage?

“Your mother?” Sabé asked. “You think she’d throw that much of a fit over you getting your majority under his nose?”

“And immediately volunteering for the decoy protocol,” Yané added, still smiling. “Yes.”

Something about that smile was making Rabé uneasy, not reassured.

Even Sabé was frowning at the younger girl. “The decoy protocol is a lot of work, and it’s far more dangerous than the usual job.”

“I understand.”

Her hands. Yané’s hands were lingering by her wrists.

Yané _always_ covered her wrists.

Rabé put down her fork, appetite gone. “You don’t _have_ to follow through, even if you volunteer. You can opt out.”

“I won’t.”

Sabé still looked confused.

Rabé belatedly remembered how Saché—also originally employed under Veruna—tended to stick near Yané, shielding her to some degree. Maybe that older, more experienced handmaiden was already working at something.

But even if that was the case, the evidence of how ineffectual Saché’s efforts had been…

Rabé forced her attention from Yané’s arms, letting the girl keep some privacy. “Does anyone know where Eirtaé went?”

* * *

_Rip the tide out the door_ , Jedi Padawan Aayla Secura messaged her master once the timer went off, the silliness sufficing as a check-in and setting precedent that made things all the less suspicious when she had to message code words or phrases.

He actually replied, this time: _Don’t joke about that._

She rolled her eyes. As if anybody would catch the nod to Sith poisons!

Aayla brushed back her lekku and ran a search on another news archive, looking for keywords that might fit manifestations of Force sensitivity. When she mentioned the Force to various Gungans here in Otah-whatever, everybody knew what it was and called it ‘maxi big’—which indicated some awareness of it, but there had never been a Gungan Jedi.

She tried asking directly if anybody _used_ the Force, and most gave her weird looks. A few ignored her question outright.

One male, a librarian, had stumbled over himself, muttering something about needing his hsuberry wine. She hadn’t seen him since, and nobody knew who she was talking about when she asked for his name.

Altogether, Gungans _obviously_ had Force-sensitive members and didn’t talk about it with outsiders. At all.

Jar Jar Binks, then, could quite possibly be banished in part because he lacked the discretion to properly handle his own Force sensitivity—if he had it. Aayla suspected he did.

He certainly had been given an incredible number of opportunities to be a productive member of society before his banishment, with his unusually destructive clumsiness sabotaging each one.

Which brought the question of what the big deal was about the hsuberry the Gungans loved so much but were leery of feeding her, citing concerns about physiological compatibility…even though the Naboo consumed hsuberry just fine. Maybe they used a different processing method?

She highlighted her note to self to get her hands on some Gungan hsuberry, to test against—

A Force presence caught her attention. “Grandmaster?”

He strode through the library entrance and over to her without pausing. “Pack up.”

Aayla blinked at him. “But I’m in the middle of—”

“You’re going back to Coruscant.”

But she _wasn’t done_. “Master Quinlan assigned me this.”

“I’ll pick him in up in a bit.”

New orders, then, sending she and her master in different directions. Probably Sith-related, since that was the category where she had the lowest clearance. She slumped. “Okay, let me just—”

“ _Now_.”

She knew better than to argue with that tone. She scrambled to gather her notes and reader and water bottle. The data rods could be cleaned up by the librarians—at least, she thought they could.

Aayla hesitated, mentally reviewing what she had out. Nothing damning.

“Grandpadawan.”

“I’m coming,” she said, even as fear tickled her chest. For him to be shipping her off to Coruscant, so abruptly, before he even notified Master Quinlan of _his_ new orders…

What had happened?

And how long would it be before she saw her master again?


End file.
